Of Monsters and Men
by LithiumReaper
Summary: A bullet to the brain can rock your world, and not in a good way either. So when Neal wakes up with nothing but his own name, a paperclip and three caps, he knows he's screwed. Complete and utter AU set in a post-apocalyptic world.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:**** A bullet to the brain can rock your world, and not in a good way either, so when Neal wakes up with nothing but his own name, a paperclip and three caps, he knows he's screwed. Complete and utter AU set in a post-apocalyptic world.**

**Rating:**** T, likely to change to M in the future**

**Based on the PC game Fallout: New Vegas. And no, I don't own White Collar, just the computer this was written on and a version of the game.**

Two pairs of hands push on his shoulders, forcing Neal to his knees. One on each side signaling that there is no way that he can get out of this one, not even with minimal injury sustained to his person. This must be the end all those other couriers spewed about. Thing is, Neal wasn't a courier, well, 80% conman and 20% courier. The conman side of his past introduced him to the man currently pointing a gun at his head, right between his eyes.

Mister "I-have-giant-bananas-for-hands" shoves his right hand into Neal's pockets, his left secured on Neal's right shoulder. When grabby-hands finds what he's looking for, he pulls his hand back with such force, that he actually tears the breast pocket halfway down. If Neal just happened not to be facing imminent death, he'd be giving this brute a piece of his mind.

Shifting in irritation at the manhandling of his clothes, and well, the fact that he's about to be shot between the eyes, Neal feels sharp rocks press into his knees. Neal can feel blood starting to escape his skin with the force that he's being pushed down. He wants to snap at the idiots, yell at them to stop pushing him into the ground, it's not like he's going anywhere and their force sure as hell won't push the earth down a fraction of a millimeter.

Mozzie always animatedly gave his opinion that Adler will get him killed one day. Neal never listened. Always one more day, a little more information, a few more caps, and now…now he's going to be another nameless body in a shallow grave outside of a shitty nameless, useless, middle-of-nowhere town in the middle of _buttfuck nowhere_.

Keller steps forward, pressing the action end of the gun right between Neal's eyes. The sharp contrast between the cold weapon and his overheated skin is enough to almost make him gasp. As much as Neal tries to convince himself otherwise, he's going to die in this godforsaken desert. No one deserves to be put down like a diseased dog, not even Neal Caffrey, conartist, thief, forger, liar extraordinaire. Mozzie would be proud with his inner monologue. Keller draws Neal's attention back when he cocks his gun, the sound quieting even the soft melody crickets in this graveyard are singing as tribute to the moon and stars.

"I had to kill three people to get to this Caffrey." Keller grins and shakes the package grabby hands liberated from Neal's now dead breast pocket. Keller slides the package into his pocket, the tiny chip inside never to be seen by Neal's eyes again, seeing as he knows he's one cheeky comeback away from ending up ghoul food. Neal forces his shudder down. The thought of insane, radiation infested, skin-peeled ghouls just sickens him.

Keller pulls a cigarette from a packet he stashed somewhere on his person, and lights it up. He probably got those from the Maggots. Damn useless junkies will do anything for anyone, just as long as they get their caps to buy the products needed to make their happy-juice. Maggots are worse than scum, but nowhere near as bad as Caesar's Legion. Maggots rape and then kill their victims or _acquisitions_ as they like to call them. The Legion rape them, torture them and sell them as slaves. A fate far worse than death. In death you don't get passed around as a village bicycle where anyone can get a ride for the right amount of caps paid to the owner.

"Congratulations, you found it." Neal practically spits at Keller, only causing Keller's grin to grow wider. He's stepping closer again, crouching low to he can look Neal in the eyes without Neal having to crane his neck.

"Kate practically mewled the truth the moment I had my hands on her, around her, _in her._" The hatred in Neal's eyes flare, but he forces himself not to head butt Keller, knock some teeth loose and force him to swallow them down along with his own blood. But he doesn't. That's not how Neal Caffrey operates. Violence and weapons are beneath him, a statement people call him an idiot over, seeing as they live in a world filled with killers, rapists and monsters.

"Kate spilled everything, where to find you, what you were carrying with you… so quickly, so easily. It's too bad Caffrey, slitting her throat was like running a hot knife through butter." Keller grins even wider at Neal's horrified expression. Keller blows smoke from his nose straight into Neal's face.

"You won't get away with this Keller. Adler wants that package, and he's not above killing you for it. We both know that, even your idiotic goons know it." Neal bites back. Keller barks out a harsh laugh, nearly dropping his cigarette.

"Adler wants the package?" Keller leans in close to Neal, the overpowering scent of cigarette smoke, sweat and rotting cabbage fills Neal's nostrils, causing bile to move up his throat slightly. "Who do you think sent me?" Keller whispers, before standing up and moving a few paces back.

Neal feels nauseated, he can't be sure why exactly. The fact that Kate sold him out to this bastard, Adler basically signing his death warrant or Mozzie being right all along about Adler and Kate, that they'd both cause him more harm than they are worth. But Kate would never….

"Sweet dreams Caffrey." Keller practically purrs. There's a loud bang that makes his ears ring, a splattering sound and overpowering darkness surrounding Neal in less than a second.

_***WC*WC*WC***_

Jones disappeared quite a while ago to sell their haul to the little brat running her daddy's local store. Sometimes Peter just wants to charge Sara the prices New Vegas residents pay for their haul, but he knows things are tight in Eadon. His pocket jingles. Peter wants to curse, but Diana is sitting next to him and he's sure that no matter how soft the utterance, June will most definitely hear him and smack him upside the head.

Peter shifts and his pocket jingles again. Damn caps. When the world ended and the little moles who hid in bunkers all over the world, crawled out of their holes like termites struck with a flash flood, the economy crashed and paper money had absolutely no use. So humanity resorted to one of the few things they had an abundance of. Caps. Yes, bottle caps. People learned the hard way not to carry too much on their person, in case a Raider or a Maggot got an earful of the jingle in your pocket. Before Peter can further internally rant his hate of the new monetary system, a distinctive pop sound fills his ears.

Peter jerks his head up at the familiar sound. Diana perks up too. They know that sound, they've heard it many times before, they've been the ones to make that sound too many times to possibly count. Peter stands, moving the bar stool he was perched on aside.

"Boss-" Diana starts, but Peter cuts her off.

"Stay here." Peter says gruffly before making his way to the creaky wooden doors of this fine establishment. He knows June does her best and keeps the place as clean as possible, but in Eadon, hell anywhere except New Vegas is impossible to keep clean and dirt free. They are in the desert for heaven's sake.

Peter closes the door behind him, stepping into the cool night air. The smell of smoke and vomit tends to cloud his senses along with the noise. There's a shuffling noise up on Eadon Cemetery Hill. Peter has a bad feeling that the awfully familiar sound came from that damned cemetery.

Pulling his 9mm handgun from its holster on his hip, Peter quickly and stealthily makes his way up the footpath leading to the cemetery gate, diverting only once he is roughly a meter from the light created by the torches surrounding the perimeter of the cemetery, ducking behind a scrawny tree before sneaking his way along the wooden bars.

Peter spots two large men push a limp body into a shallow grave in the middle of the cemetery. A third man, sucking on a cigarette stands off to the side. A shining silver weapon clutched lazily in his right hand as he stares up at the Eadon night sky, smoke escaping from his mouth, making him resemble a dragon. Peter remembers them from when his mother used to read him stories from the old days. It's his best memory of his mother.

"Don't bother burying him. Come on, let's go." The third man instructs the two elephant like men. "Nice knowing you Neal." The man chuckles and throws his cigarette into the shallow grave.

The men disappear down the path leading out of town and Peter waits. Five minutes seem to drag by before he emerges from his hiding spot to jog to the shallow hole in the ground, filled with a young man lying motionless and in an awkward position, right leg leaning over his left, right arm bent awkwardly in front of him, while his left arm is bent underneath his body. His face is only partially visible, dark floppy hair falling over his forehead. Peter muses he'd be quite the stunning sight to behold, if it wasn't for the hole in his head and blood seeping into the ground.

Peter bends down, pulling the young man up by his right arm, hooking both hands under his armpits once he can reach his left side. He's learned enough from Hughes to know that he should get the body to him as quickly as possible before the ghouls smell his blood and flood into town killing everyone.

Peter pulls the young man fully out of his grave and carries him bridal style out of the cemetery. He hurries quickly down the path leading into town, taking a left, up to Hughes' house. It's not like he can knock, so Peter kicks harshly at the door until Hughes furiously yanks the door open. He looks ready to yell at whoever is bothering him at this godforsaken hour, but once he sees Peter covered in blood from the shoulder down, a young man with floppy hair cradled in his arms, he shuts up, telling Peter to move his big ass into the surgery.

Peter sets the young man down and backs away. Hughes bends over and examines the wound. The last thing Peter expects is for Hughes' face to light up and to reach for his worn black rubber gloves.

"What the hell are you doing?" Peter demands when Hughes pulls his tray filled with operating tools closer.

"Whoever tried to kill this young man used regenerated bullets. You know how their quality is horrible, and their effectiveness isn't that of new bullets, so that's why they're cheaper too. Cheapskates tend to be stupid as well as cheap." Hughes replies with a glint in his eyes. "Here, help me." Hughes hands Peter a piece of equipment he's never seen in his life, but does as Hughes tells him.

"Hold the entry wound open with these." Hughes explains when he sees the confused look on Peter's face.

"Are you telling me this guy is still alive?" Peter asks, his astonishment evident in his words and on his face.

"That I am Burke that I am."

_***WC*WC*WC***_

**AN: Soooo…my first chaptered WC fic.. Everything will be explained in detail later on, I swear. There's only that much I can get into the first chapter without spoiling everything.. Thank you for reading, and please leave me your thoughts! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary:**** A bullet to the brain can rock your world, and not in a good way either, so when Neal wakes up with nothing but his own name, a paperclip and three caps, he knows he's screwed. Complete and utter AU set in a post-apocalyptic world.**

**Rating:**** T, likely to change to M in the future**

**Based on the PC game Fallout: New Vegas. And no, I don't own White Collar, just the computer this was written on and a version of the game.**

**This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are completely mine.**

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He's not a squeamish man, but there's a difference between shooting ghouls and super mutants, patching up a scrape or a bullet wound sustained by Maggots or Raiders, but _this_...this is something different. This is Hughes digging around a man's skull. He can feel the instruments moving beneath his fingers as he holds the hole open for Hughes.

Hughes dabs one of his surgery cloths, which is really just a sheet that had been torn to shreds a few years back when Peter, Diana and Jones had a bad run in with some super mutants who happened to be in a breeding pack, upping the number of the usual two, to around ten. Diana and Jones got away with scratches from being swiped at, but Peter, ever the leader, had to protect his group. He took a blade to the thigh, three broken ribs; a broken wrist from being grabbed and literally thrown across the field and a nicked femoral artery, which was expertly patched by Diana until they could get Peter back to Hughes.

Hughes chewed his ass out for weeks while he was recovering. Diana and Jones refused to move him over to June's, even though they knew she had more than her share of available rooms. Some sort of eye-opening epiphany was expected of him. Needless to say, that didn't happen.

"Almost there." Hughes mumbles and digs in more, pulling Peter from his thoughts. Peter can see the muscles in his arm moving. Thank goodness he's not the one on this table right now, especially not once he's been manhandled by Hughes.

"Are you even sure this guy's going to make it?" Peter asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

"I hope so Peter, because-" Hughes pauses and pulls his arm back, the strange looking instrument moving with him until Peter can see a shiny red bullet pulled from the hole on the right ride of the guy's face. "I didn't just pull a shitty bullet from his brain for him to just die." Hughes finishes. Peter isn't listening anymore, instead he finds himself staring at the killing instrument Hughes just pulled out.

"He'll have one hell of a headache; I can assure you of that." Hughes sets his instruments down and walks over to his little supply cabinet for some gauze, cotton wool and tape.

"He's a lucky guy if he ever wakes up." Peter whispers, brushing some hair off of the young man's forehead. Hughes nods, knowing exactly where Peter's thoughts have run off to. He steps back over to the young man, swiping some antiseptic over the wound, placing a bit of cotton wool over the wound, securing it with some tape before starting with the gauze. Peter can see Hughes' mind working, before he speaks.

"What exactly happened? Where did you find this kid?" Hughes inquires.

"Diana and I were sitting down at June's when I heard a pop. I went up to Cemetery Hill. I thought that might be the most likely place anyone would shoot something in the middle of the night. When I got there, I saw three guys; two were pushing this poor John into what they figured to be his resting place and took off." Peter wants to rub his hand over his face, but he's not in the mood to smear himself with blood.

"Where did they go?" Hughes asks before pulling his gloves off. Turning around, Hughes wets a rag in his little sink. Hughes and June's Bar are the only places in Eadon who have running water. They have to caps to pay the government for it, the rest of the community, not so much.

"I don't know. I just saw that they went out of town. Probably back to New Vegas. The one guy, he's definitely in charge, kid doesn't look like he's ever spent a night out in the desert before." Peter takes the rag Hughes offers him and starts wiping his hands, desperate to get all the blood off.

"But you can't be sure?" Hughes presses. Peter knows why Hughes needs to know. He's the town sheriff and doctor. He's been on Peter's back about settling in Eadon and taking up the position of sheriff permanently, but Peter refuses every time. This place has too many ghosts lingering around.

"No, I can't be sure. I'm making an educated guess that they've left town. Trust me, if they ever come back, you'll know immediately that they haven't come to Eadon for the scenery or the giant lizards that seem to populate the water supply over the hill." Peter snarks, handing Hughes the bloody rag. Hughes pulls a face, but doesn't say anything.

"How long are you in town for?" Peter knows Hughes wants to ask something else, but he doesn't. He steers the conversation to something far safer, something that won't make Peter glare and storm off.

"A few days. Diana and Jones need some time off, seems I've been working them far too hard." Peter lets out a chuckle that's far from amused.

"Well, it's not their fault you've got the stamina of a mule." Hughes is blatantly teasing Peter. It earns him an eye roll.

"Help me move him to the spare room." Hughes points down at the young man and moves down to his feet. Peter should have known Hughes would leave him the bulk of the weight to carry, not like this guy is heavy at all. He's a little stick of a thing.

"Renting my room out already Reese?" Peter grins and moves to pull the young man up so that he can slide his hands beneath his armpits. Hughes grins back and shakes his head.

"You didn't have a bullet in your brain." Peter lets out a chuckle, one that he actually means as they lift the young man off of the cold, hard metal table and down the hall into the spare room with the soft mattress.

***WC*WC*WC***

Someone is sitting on his head, or has pushed his or her fingers into his eye sockets and is poking his brain repeatedly with very sharp fingers. Hell, maybe it's a combination of the two. A terrible combination. Neal groans trying to shift his head away from whatever it is that keeps assaulting him.

There's something soft beneath his body. The material is scratchy against his palm. _'Open your eyes'_ Neal tells himself, but his brain protests painfully against thinking, let alone moving. Neal groans again, but doesn't attempt to move. Sleep beckons him closer, whispering sweet words of bliss. He's just a man, so he takes sleep up on its offer.

***WC*WC*WC***

Someone is tapping his shoulder. Neal can't move his arms without his head screaming like a harpy in his ears. The tapping is persistent though. Neal groans again, forcing himself to tell the hand to go away, but all that comes out is a garbled "zz ff." He's pretty sure he said buzz off by the sound of the humming now filling his ears. The annoying tapping goes away and Neal lulls himself back into his dream as sleep takes over him once more.

***WC*WC*WC***

When Neal finally opens his eyes, it sure as hell isn't because he wants to, but because he's forced to. An old man in a faded pinstripe button down keeps bothering him, keeps making him talk even though Neal told him he doesn't want to talk. His head is trying to kill him and he wants nothing more than to sleep.

A little while later, the badgering old man leaves him alone, leaving Neal to sleep. The only problem is, once Neal feels sleep taking him again, the old man is back. With friends no less. Neal's not really paying any attention to anything being said, but he can hear muffled voices, one belonging to the old man, the other is one he's never heard before in his life, but thinking about voices he's heard makes his head hurt. He doesn't like having his head hurt this badly, so Neal clenches his eyes shut and reduces his thinking pattern to _'breathe in, breathe out'_ only.

***WC*WC*WC***

After dragging the young man into the spare room, Peter made his way back to June's. He earned himself a few odd looks, seeing as there's pretty much a blood bath on his shirt, but Peter ignores the looks, like he always does. Diana wanted to ask questions, interrogate him as to why there's a huge bloodstain on his shirt, but Peter just told her he's going to bed and they can talk in the morning.

The next morning, after little to no sleep, Diana is at his door, knocking politely. He knows immediately that Jones is not with her. Jones would just have banged on the door continuously until Peter yelled at him to stop. The contrast between Diana and Jones is well, immense. Diana creates the impression of a cold, ruthless gun wielder, but she's one of the nicest people Peter has ever met, and in this new world of theirs, that's saying a lot. Jones is brash, hard and has only a small amount of tact which he depletes once having finished trading with Sara.

Groaning, Peter gets up and opens the door. It has no lock, but Diana seems to have the courtesy to knock instead of barging inside.

"Morning Boss." Diana smiles and walks to the small window located on the far wall. The room is nothing to brag about. It only contains a single cot, a basin and a window. Nothing more than a trader needs.

"Morning Diana." Peter mumbles and sits back down on his unmade bed.

"Didn't sleep either?" Diana asks, pushing the window open. A hot desert breeze slowly, almost lazily enters the room, alleviating some of the stuffiness.

"No. These cots don't seem as comfortable as I remember them." Diana laughs lightly at Peter's snarky comment.

"They never were comfortable. This is Eadon, not New Vegas." If she could have said anything more obvious, Peter swears he'd guffaw.

"And what a pity that is." Peter replies, running a hand down his face.

"Care to tell me now why there's a huge bloodstain on your favorite shirt?" It's clear that Diana is done beating around the bush, she wants answers and she wants them now.

"Found the sound, kid with a bullet in his head. I took him to Hughes and it turns out that the kid's still alive. He bled all over my shirt when I carried him to Hughes' house." Peter sighs and rubs at his eyes again. It feels like someone threw handfuls of sand in his eyes, Peter knows this feeling, because a few Raiders have done it before.

"Ever the hero, aren't you Boss?" Diana winks and smiles. "At least you saved a life. I was stuck waiting for Jones to get back and when he did, the poor guy looked like he'd been mauled." Peter wants to kiss Diana right now. She's always known when he doesn't want to discuss something, and she backs off immediately.

"I'll never understand his and Sara's _'relationship'_." Peter even uses air-quotes. "She does need to stop mauling him though. He _is_ the face of our little merchant enterprise and it doesn't do good if he looks like a rat did a tango on his face and neck." Diana laughs loudly at this and walks back to the door.

"Yeah, I agree with you on that one Boss. Come on, I'll buy breakfast." Peter nods and scratches at his five o' clock shadow.

"Gimme a few minutes. I'll meet you downstairs." Diana nods and leaves Peter's little room, closing the door behind her.

Peter sits for a few seconds before getting up and folds the blankets and sheets. He washes his face, shaves and quickly washes most of the sweat off of his body before dressing. He wears his jeans even though he doesn't particularly like the feel of them, pulling on a white pinstripe button down on over his undershirt and the clunky boots be bought in New-Vegas after a Maggot shot his other pair to bits.

Peter pulls on his shoulder holsters and takes all of his meager possessions from the small room. As promised, Peter meets Diana downstairs for breakfast. Surprisingly Jones is also waiting for him.

"Good morning Boss." Jones greets and Peter notes that his eyes are a little red and there are multiple scratches trailing down his jaw to his neck.

"Jones."

"I ordered breakfast already boss. June says she might have some coffee somewhere in the back, and have her order list for when we do our next round." Diana informs Peter.

"Good, thank you Diana." Peter replies before taking the seat between Jones and Diana. "Sara give you a hard time, Jones?" Peter asks with a wink. At least the man has the decency to look somewhat embarrassed.

"Yeah, she uh, said she missed me." Jones ducks his head, staring intently at the grungy bar.

"You know I don't care about who you sleep with Jones, but when it comes to our business, it crosses the line. This-" Peter points at the scratches littering Jones' jaw and neck "influences the business. You can't walk into New Vegas or any town looking like a ghoulie attacked you. We pride ourselves in being the best and looking like something mauled you doesn't fall under that." Peter scolds. His face resembles stone and his voice is cold in its authority. Jones better get the message, Peter muses.

"Yes Boss."

"Good. Now let's eat and leave. We've already been here long enough to cause suspicion." Peter says looking from Jones to Diana. They both nod. Diana already knows she'll be handling all transactions while Jones' scratches heal. She doesn't particularly like dealing with transactions, but she suffers through them. She's one hell of a woman.

"Ah, Peter. How are you?" June suddenly asks just as suddenly as she appears.

"Good morning June. I'm alright, how are you?" Peter feels himself suddenly turn into a shy schoolboy in front of this legendary woman. June was married to a man named Byron, a man who conned many a man out of his earnings back in the day when he and June lived in New Vegas. When they moved to Eadon, Byron gave up his conning ways and opened this very bar with June. June is the town mother to Hughes' father figure. And she's as scary as she is intimidating as she is sweet.

"Oh fine, fine. I saw you coming in looking rather bloodied around the edges. Care to share what happened?" June asks sweetly. She might as well have ordered Peter to tell her. No one ever says no to this woman. Peter ducks his head before clearing his throat.

"Just a few troublemakers up on Cemetery Hill. They shot a young man. Hughes says he'll be fine." Peter says, preferring the conditioned version to retelling the entire story for a third time. He doesn't even know this kid and he's already causing trouble for him. "We should send someone up to cover the blood. Don't want to attract any ghouls." Peter looks up at June. She's giving him that concerned look of hers, so Peter musters up a smile.

"I'll tell Alex. It's about time she pulls her weight around here anyway." June smiles and turns away. "Oh Peter, here. You should have some coffee before you leave. See it as a reward for being a hero. And you be sure to bring that boy here before you take your leave." June teases with a wink. Peter feels his ears turn pink just about the time he hears both Jones and Diana snicker. He'll give them both a death glare later.

"Thank you June."

One of June's many servers hurries over carrying three plates of breakfast, placing it in front of their correct recipient before scurrying away again.

"I'll never understand how they always know who gets what. Anywhere else, people just slam them down without checking who gets what." Jones says. Peter hums as Diana speaks up.

"We've been coming here for far too long for anyone to forget."

***WC*WC*WC***

They manage to get halfway through their breakfast when Hughes barrels through the door.

"Peter you've got to come with me." Hughes says. He's out of breath. Something is definitely up.

"Diana-"

"I've got it Boss." Diana says even before Peter can get anything but her name out. Walking after Hughes, back to his house, Peter asks what he doesn't want the rest of the town to overhear in their lovely little bar.

"Do you know who he is?" Hughes doesn't answer. Peter just follows.

Hughes opens his front door, heading straight down the hall to the spare room where Peter knows the young man is located. Peter closes the door behind him and slowly walks down the hall Hughes already disappeared down. He tries not to notice the faded wood beneath his feet, the peeling wallpaper on the walls or the sparse photographs littering the walls. Coming to a stop in the door, Peter sees Hughes tap the young man on his shoulder. The young man only groans and swats at Hughes' hand.

"Amnesia. He doesn't know anything about anything." Hughes says, looking up from where he is crouched next to the bed.

"So what do you suggest? Do you want to keep him in Eadon until he remembers? I'm sure June would love some company down at the bar." Peter says sarcastically.

"Don't get snippy with me. This kid was on his way to New Vegas."

"How do you know that?" Peter enquires.

"Paperclip. Couriers carry paperclips with them when they're on their way to New Vegas." Hughes steps closer to Peter.

"Then patch him up and send him on his merry way Reese." Peter already knows where this is going and he doesn't like it one bit.

"Do you honestly want to send this man without a weapon right out the door? I knew you were hardened Peter, but I never thought you were heartless." Hughes raises his voice a little, disappointment seeping into his tone.

"And you can't possibly expect me to lug this kid around with me and mine. We have a hard enough time keeping ourselves alive, but to keep and outsider alive who doesn't even know what's out there? You've completely lost the plot old man." Peter spits and turns to leave.

"Elizabeth would be so disappointed in you Peter, in who you've become." Hughes says before Peter can put too much distance between them. His back has only ever been this tense when people talk about her.

"Don't talk about her." Peter bites out.

"Three days Peter. Three days and I'll have him on his feet. Take him to New Vegas and your debt will be paid. Then you can go where you please." Hughes says.

Peter doesn't answer, he just storms out of Hughes' house and back to the bar. He needs to think. He needs a drink.

***WC*WC*WC***

**AN: So here's chapter two… thank you to **_**akitty, where's-waldo-15, B and my guest reviewer**_** for flinging some love my way. Also much love to the 8 followers of this little dribble. Please let me know what you guys think of this chapter, even if it is just to tell me I'm a complete idiot for thinking this even makes sense.**

**Mary xx**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary:**** A bullet to the brain can rock your world, and not in a good way either, so when Neal wakes up with nothing but his own name, a paperclip and three caps, he knows he's screwed. Complete and utter AU set in a post-apocalyptic world.**

**Rating:**** T, likely to change to M in the future**

**Based on the PC game Fallout: New Vegas. And no, I don't own White Collar, just the computer this was written on and a version of the game.**

**This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are completely mine.**

Peter Burke may be many things; he sure as hell has been called pretty much everything under the sun, people tend to get creative when they insult him, but he isn't a charitable man. He doesn't go back to the bar. Diana and Jones are there. They ask too many questions. Too many "are you okay" enquiries have been tossed his way, some sympathetic others not so much.

Hughes is asking too much. Peter can't stay. This town holds too many demons for him to stay longer than his usual one day limit. They have rules and he's breaking each and every one of them. Peter is breaking his own rules. So he keeps walking. Past the row of small wooden houses, small dirt heaps that frame a path that leads down to the town's water supply. This is the quietest place in this entire Godforsaken town.

The smartest people Peter has ever known used to live here. Tragedy followed them all wherever they went. A choked sigh erupts from Peter's throat. He keeps walking. Just over this particular sand heap, Peter finds the water pipes. They are some of the biggest pipes available, roughly a meter and a half above the ground. The animals tend to get too close to the pipes and break them, especially the lizards. They chew on the lining of the pipes and leaks form, wasting precious gold by letting it drizzle into the ground below.

Peter doesn't see any of them around. Sara must have already done the water run this morning. Town's folk aren't allowed to come get water without Sara, Hughes or June. Each of them owns a big gun that's perfect for killing lizards. Usually they skin them, divide the meat between the town's people and then tan the hide. They make shoes out of the hide. Pretty good ones too.

Peter eases himself down on the hard sand and rock beneath his feet. He doesn't adjust his body, instead letting the small sharp rocks press into his buttocks. His pants will be ruined. Peter can't bring himself to care. There is only one thing on his mind.

_Elizabeth._

***WC*WC*WC***

The old man is back. He's pulling on his arms to get him upright. Neal lets his head lull back. There is no energy in his body, only fatigue. His headache won't go away; instead it has only become worse since the old man yelled earlier. The old man insists on making him move. It hurts Neal's head too much, but he doesn't say anything.

"Come on dammit…" The old man groans. Neal can only imagine that dead weight is difficult to carry. That and this guy isn't a spring chicken. His hands are bony and Neal will bet the soft comfort of the bed under his body that his body is just as bony.

There is commotion coming from somewhere Neal can't see. It sounds far from him, but close enough to be able to hurt him. The old man has stopped trying to move Neal, setting him back down again instead. Neal can hear him turn around and walk from the room. He follows his footsteps. The wooden floorboards creek under his feet. He stops.

A creaky door opens, the hinges practically screaming in agony. There's a muffled conversation. The door closes. Footsteps are coming back, but instead of the old man's slightly stooped over, more pressure on the heels footsteps, there is another pair. This pair feels familiar, almost as if Neal has heard it before. There is no biased preference to which part of his feet this man uses, he plants his whole foot down confidently, yet hesitantly. A _beautiful_ contradiction.

No conversation follows the footsteps as they draw closer. Neal takes a deep breath. Someone is next to him. Hands take hold of his arms and pull him up off of his back. Neal's arms are thrown over shoulders, strong shoulders. Hands slip beneath his armpits and suddenly Neal's being pulled up on the incredibly comfortable surface beneath him. His back comes into contact with a hard, flat surface. His arms are returned to his body.

The bed dips both sides of his body. _This is it_, Neal thinks. _One of them is going to slide a knife along my throat like a knife prying open a stubborn piece of fruit_.

Someone is taking cloth away from his head. Must be the old man. Neal presses his fingers into the rough material beneath his fingertips. It scratches at the sensitive pads of his fingers. Neal doesn't mind it. The old man dabs something against his forehead and it stings like a _motherfucker_, making Neal hiss in pain.

"Shh Neal, it's okay." The material underneath Neal's fingers moves. Except it istn material, it's a leg.

_Neal_. This man knows his name. How does he know his name? It took Neal _years_ to figure out what his name is and it made his head hurt a little more every time.

"H-how do y-you know my name?" Neal rasps out. His throat is achy and dry.

"The nice man who put a bullet into you head said your name before taking off." The man replies.

"What man?" Neal asks. His eyes won't open. It still hurts too much.

"I was hoping you could tell me." The old man is soothing something onto Neal's head. The stinging lessens. It still doesn't go away completely. Neal is having trouble differentiating between where he starts and where the pain ends. _Everything hurts._

"I don't know who you're talking about." Neal pulls his head away from the bony fingers. He wants to sleep now.

"Don't play coy with me kid. Who is the guy who put a bullet into you head and almost made scrambled eggs with your brain?" The man is pushing. Neal doesn't want to answer more questions he doesn't know the answers to.

"Why don't you tell me what you want me to say and I'll say it?" The old man chuckles and pulls his head back the way he was facing before he turned away. He isn't sure which way is left and which is right. Scratchy material makes contact with his skin again.

"Well at least we know he has sarcasm down." The old man only laughs again at the other man's comment. Neal doesn't like being laughed at. He doesn't know why, but he just doesn't like it.

"Come on Peter. The kid needs to rest." The old man instructs the other man, no wait, he instructs _Peter_ to move Neal back down on the cushy surface beneath him. Peter grumbles, but pulls Neal down the same way he pulled him up. He doesn't lay a finger on Neal again, not that Neal knows of anyway. The two men move from the room. Neal can still hear them. They're talking to each other now. Hostility is pouring off of Peter. Neal doesn't have to open his eyes to see it.

Neal can only make out the last part of the conversation.

"…only doing it because she'd want me to."

Neal falls asleep. He doesn't dream of a white darkness, no, he dreams of dirt beneath his fingernails, rough material underneath his fingers, the smell of smoke and blood, the feeling of pain. Neal doesn't sleep peacefully, but thankfully he does sleep. Sleep dulls the pain in his skull. At least for a little while anyway.

***WC*WC*WC***

Peter doesn't go back to the bar. The sun is out and it scorches the brown and red earth outside the creaky wooden door of Hughes' house. Peter sits on Hughes' worn couch. Hughes doesn't say anything. After a little while, Hughes offers Peter a cup of coffee. It's Hughes' last brew. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. Peter already knows.

Diana came looking for him a little while ago. Hughes told her that Peter is fine, which is the furthest thing from the truth as humanly possible. He lives in a world where murder, rape, kidnapping, theft, monsters and bad men is the only way left, the only way people know how to function. A sort of sick and twisted survival instinct _gone mad_.

Some days Peter looks back on his youth and wishes that he'd gotten hooked on chems like most of his friends did. Before responsibility pried his eyes open with force. Chems would have dulled the obvious distraught at the shithole of a world he found himself trapped in. He can see his mother aiming a slap at the back of his head.

After sending Diana away with the utterly _devastatingly wonderful_ news that they'll be staying three extra days and taking a tourist back to his cushy home in New Vegas, Hughes made dinner. Lizard and cauliflower. It's the best Peter has eaten in the last few months. Merchants don't have a lot of time to make simple, yet exquisite meals like this.

Hughes is standing in the doorway. Peter doesn't notice that in the process of sitting on this worn out couch in Hughes' shitty living room, he's slouched down on the couch so far that he's surprised he can even breathe.

"I need to clean his wound again." It's a silent command. Peter pushes himself up and goes after Hughes. The process of pulling the young man up the bed is repeated. He doesn't wake this time. His eyes do clench when Hughes dabs the cleaning solution on his wound, but he doesn't wake up. Afterward Peter lowers him back down again.

It has grown dark already. The torches are burning up into the night sky. Hughes hands Peter sheets and a yellow stained pillow. Peter doesn't want to go back to the bar, back to his incredibly small, no-name room. Hughes won't let him leave even if he tried to.

He knows what frame of mind Peter is in right now. He knows that Peter doubts his existence. How he wishes he'd died and Elizabeth had lived. How he goes out and seeks out any form of danger, so that he could feel as alive as he did when he was with _her._

Hughes won't allow Peter to stay like this forever. He allows him to mourn the death of his wife; to mourn the use of her name; to mourn the thoughts he's been having all day about her.

Peter makes his bed on the couch. Hughes says goodnight. Peter only gruffly acknowledges his existence. Peter eventually manages to fall asleep after staring at the ceiling for the longest time. He's been staring so long in fact that his eyes have started to water and he has to force himself to blink.

When he does fall asleep, Peter dreams. He dreams of curly dark hair and lovely light eyes; of pale skin and plump lips that held such beautiful promises of _more._

Peter dreams of a lost love, a love that was more friendship than romance. A love that goes blood red and dies in his arms. A love that wilts and withers in the ground as she smiled with those plump lips stained with her own blood.

Peter dreams of _Elizabeth_.

***WC*WC*WC***

**AN:**** Sorry for the wait for this chapter. It's really just a filler. I meant to update earlier, but it was my birthday on Wednesday and I wrote a crappy exam on Thursday. I hope you guys like it, please leave me some love.**

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, but come on now! Leave me some love.**

**Mary xxx**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary:**** A bullet to the brain can rock your world, and not in a good way either, so when Neal wakes up with nothing but his own name, a paperclip and three caps, he knows he's screwed. Complete and utter AU set in a post-apocalyptic world.**

**Rating:**** T, likely to change to M in the future**

**Based on the PC game Fallout: New Vegas. And no, I don't own White Collar, just the computer this was written on and a version of the game.**

**This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are completely mine.**

Hughes made good on his promise. Three days after being shot in the head, Neal was up and moving about. Granted, he wasn't exactly moving around much, but he was moving. If ever asked, Neal would never be able to explain it, he felt wary of Hughes and terrified of Peter, but somehow Peter makes him feel safe.

Hughes woke him up before the sun had even decided to rise, forcing him into a small tiled bathroom with a basin of water, a bar of soap and a towel that used to be fluffy when it was first used, now though, it just resembles a rag that scratches water off of your body.

Neal washed the matted blood from his hair and ears. He would never know how blood managed to pool in his ears. He washed away the awful yellow of the antiseptic from his face. Blood crusted around the stitched up hole in his forehead, which he patted away rather than scrubbing off. Pain isn't something anyone should like.

He washed the sweat and stink off of his skin, oiling his face and using the old blade Hughes left next to a pile of clothes. Neal shaved his stubble and dressed himself in borrowed clothes. The feeling of charity hit him in the chest like a ton of bricks. Even though he might not remember anything, Neal has a feeling that charity is something that wasn't extended to him very often.

Peter decided to sleep on Hughes' terrible couch the remaining three days. His blatant mistrust of Neal is quite apparent. Peter seems like someone who protects his own and who hates outsiders with a passion. He'd like to get to know Peter better, well, if he wasn't being a complete asshole. Peter makes him feel _safe._ Neal isn't familiar with feeling safe at all. He doesn't need his memories to tell him that.

Right now though, Peter seems determined to badger Neal about things he has no clue about.

"What's your last name?" Peter practically growls at Neal. His fingers are tapping impatiently on the kitchen table Hughes forced them to sit at while he makes breakfast.

"I already told you I don't know." Neal bites back. His patience is wearing awfully thin.

"Then tell me again." Peter raises his voice and slams his hand down on the table, making Neal jump.

"Peter. He already said he doesn't know. Amnesia is common with head wounds." Hughes scolds. He's stirring something on his little gas stove. Neal gets the feeling he doesn't use it that often. Gas is expensive. He knows that much.

"So is death, but that doesn't seem to faze him, does it?" Neal feels like he could just crawl into a hole and die right about now. Hughes turns around, spatula in hand.

"Surplus ammo comes with a warning on the label. Death isn't guaranteed." Peter barks out a laugh that sounds way more menacing than it should be.

"Unfortunately that's true." Peter pulls back from the table, moving to stand when something inside Neal snaps.

"Look, I didn't ask you to save me. I'm not some damsel in distress that needs constant mothering. I don't know how I ended up in this shithole; I don't remember ever even coming here in the first place. I have three caps in my pocket, which can't even buy me a decent drink out here. I have a paperclip, which I don't know what to do with. My head hurts like hell because someone put a bullet in it. I have nothing to hide because I don't remember anything that I need to hide. So would you please stop being a dick already?"

Peter arches his brow and stares at Neal. Neal's face flushes, but he keeps eye contact with Peter. If Peter wants a stare down, Neal sure as hell will give him one.

"I only know my name because that's what you called me." Neal says in a voice that carries a mixture of shame and frustration.

Hughes doesn't say anything. He places plates on the table in front of the two men. Eggs and lizard meat. The world hasn't seen bacon since the bombs dropped almost 200 years ago.

"Alright, pissing contest is over. You both win. Now eat." Hughes commands. Peter doesn't move and neither does Neal. Hughes just sighs and dishes breakfast onto his plate.

"I don't trust you." Peter says.

"The feeling is mutual." Neal bites back.

Hughes just shakes his head and digs into his breakfast.

Peter reaches forward and dishes a rather healthy helping of eggs and lizard meat onto his plate, Neal gingerly follows suit. He feels caution creeping into his body. He doesn't know who he is, or who these people are.

They could kill him and sell his body parts. He would die a nameless, well not exactly nameless, but he's not supposed to be explaining his way of thinking to himself.

"Eat up. We leave in fifteen and June still wants to meet you."

This is really going to be one hell of a long trip.

***WC*WC*WC***

"Boss, are we really doing this?" Peter knows Diana would never question his judgment, but this is strange by all of their standards. Peter Burke is a mean, grumpy and grouchy merchant who carries more guns than anyone knows what to do with. It isn't in his nature to help anyone anymore. He's a walking contradiction. He saved Diana's life when she was just a teenager and she's been with him ever since.

He saved Jones from his abusive drunk of a father who wanted to force him into the NCR. Peter saved him from a life of mindless drug use and diseases. The children in town are afraid of him, but they respect him greatly. He keeps them all alive and safe in his own way.

Most adults hate him. Peter doesn't mind. He doesn't want them to like him. He doesn't need friends. Especially not in this hellhole.

"Yes." Peter says gruffly. He's been annoyed since that Neal character woke up. Since he went against his one code and helped someone he should have let die.

"He doesn't have a weapon." She looks worried. They're hardened to what lies beyond the borders of the town, between Eadon and New Vegas. Between one town and the next.

"Then give him one." Peter growls, yanking his bag onto his back before heading out the door. June was gracious enough to let them stay another three days. She looked rather pleased to have them there a little longer, almost as if having them in her bar kept them alive a little longer than most merchants. Merchants are known to die quickly and painfully. Raiding parties don't take kindly to someone carting goods around without letting them have at the goods. Peter has lost quite a few acquaintances this way.

"I tried. He wouldn't take it." Diana keeps talking as she follows Peter down the stairs down to the bar. Peter rounds the corner and sees Neal talking animatedly with June. She's laughing. She hasn't laughed like that since Peter has known her, and that's saying a lot. He's known her for almost 15 years.

As Peter approaches, June can almost sense the dark cloud hanging over his head. She shoots him a look that tells him to be nice.

"Why won't you take Diana gave you?" Peter asks. Diana holds both her hands out, a small 9mm toward Neal and her bare hand at Peter. Without even looking at her, Peter shrugs his bag off of his shoulder and hands it to her.

Neal clears his throat, glancing at June before making eye contact with Peter.

"I don't like guns."

Peter arches his eyebrow for what feels like the hundredth time today, wishing he could throttle Neal where he stands.

"Super mutants like people who don't have guns. Makes it easier for them to gut you and eat you." Peter's eyes scream menace.

"That's why you guys have guns, remember?" Neal grins cheekily.

"I'm not your bodyguard. Now take the damn gun and shut your mouth so we can get moving." Peter takes the gun from Diana's hand and presses it into Neal's chest, making him take half a step back.

"See you next month June." Peter nods at June, receiving a tightlipped smile in return. Wonderful, now she's mad at him too.

"It was lovely meeting you Neal." June says, smiling warmly at Neal, glaring at Peter. "You take care of him Peter Burke." Who knew a lady her age had so much sass still in her? Peter only nodded. There's no use arguing with June. She always gets what she wants.

Neal stands leaning against the bar, smiling at June as she retreats back into the kitchen. His smile vanishes the moment he spots the scowl on Peter's face. Neal tries to muster his smile back onto his lips, but it doesn't seem to be working at all. Peter has that effect on people.

"Let's get going. We have a lot of ground to cover and I have to explain to some of my clients why I didn't show up three days ago. The clear contempt in his voice is enough to make Neal frown. Peter brushes past Neal and storms out of the bar and over to where Jones is readying the Brahmin they'll be tugging along. Animals make the best pack donkeys, especially when Eadon manages to run out of every single supply imaginable.

Brahmin are two headed beasts that resemble cattle. They are normally very weak and most people keep them around for milk and meat. Some merchants, like Peter, use them to carry heavy loads. They aren't particularly smart, but they are extremely useful.

Peter feels a frown forming on his forehead. Jones is nowhere in sight. The Brahmin is bagged and saddled and all the big words needed to describe that the animal is ready to go, but Jones isn't where he's supposed to be. There is a curse already forming on his lips, that'll go nicely with the frown indented on his forehead.

"He's saying goodbye to Sara, Boss." Somehow Diana is always around when Peter wants to strangle Jones.

"I thought they didn't have that kind of relationship." Peter says, turning around to look Diana in the eyes. Neal is standing awkwardly behind her, almost as if he's unsure of what to do.

"I didn't either, but apparently they do now." Diana smiles as she speaks, moving past Peter to tie his bag to the Brahmin.

"Who's Jones?" Neal suddenly asks, Peter adjusting his eyes to look at him instead of Diana.

"He works with us." Diana calls over her shoulder, somehow knowing that Peter was intending to be rude.

"Oh..." Neal mumbles. Peter spots the weapon in his hands. Neal really does look uncomfortable handling this weapon. Sighing, Peter turns to the Brahmin and roots through his bag, pulling his spare holster from the deep recesses from his bag.

"Here" Peter motions the holster in Neal's direction. Neal stares at Peter, a lost puppy look on his face.

"Tie it around your waist and holster the gun so that your hands are free. It feels uncomfortable in the beginning to have it in your hands." Peter feels awkward having to explain this to Neal. People around here usually know all of this, but Neal isn't from around here, is he?

"Uhm, thank you." Neal smiles awkwardly and takes the holster from Peter's hands.

Peter clears his throat when he sees Diana staring at him, a grin on her face.

"Not a word." He growls at her, causing a light laugh to slip past her lips. Peter knows they'll be talking about this when they camp out. He hates having these talks with Diana. She has way too much insight into how his brain functions.

"Go find Jones dammit. Tell him to put his dick away and get his ass moving." Peter growls, watching Neal put the holster around his slim hips. He hears a door bang, Jones practically falling out of the little wooden house. Sara stands behind him as he tucks his shirt in.

Peter can only shake his head. He'll never understand the two of them. They love hating each other and hate loving each other.

"Get your ass moving Jones! We're late!" Peter bellows. Jones moves as if someone lit a fire under his ass and moves faster.

"Sorry Boss." Jones pants as he reaches Peter.

Peter only shakes his head and points at the Brahmin. Jones nods and takes the reins from Diana, pulling the Brahmin behind him. Diana takes her place on Jones' left and Peter on the right, Neal trailing closely behind Peter.

Time to get this show on the road.

***WC*WC*WC***

**AN:**** Sorry for the wait for this chapter. It's really just a little filler. The good stuff is coming up next, promise! ****I hope you guys like it. I did manage to pass my exam without getting egg on my face. Starting my honors next year, which YAY! **

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, but come on now! Leave me some love.**

**Mary xxx**

_**-Dedicated to:**_

_***AumoeAhool333**_

_***hannahsmetana84**_

_***iSage**_

_***akitty**_

_***My Burrito child!**_

_***Devoregirl**_

_***My guest reviewer**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary:**** A bullet to the brain can rock your world, and not in a good way either, so when Neal wakes up with nothing but his own name, a paperclip and three caps, he knows he's screwed. Complete and utter AU set in a post-apocalyptic world.**

**Rating:**** T, likely to change to M in the future**

**Based on the PC game Fallout: New Vegas. And no, I don't own White Collar, just the computer this was written on and a version of the game.**

**This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are completely mine.**

The Mojave is a wasteland. There are only two things that can grow out here and they are rocks and dust and it grows from here to there, _miles_ high. It is a true sign that the world has ended. The vast array of nothingness is appalling; death is spread a little further, a little more, a little more brutal than the last.

The roads that managed to survive the bombs from way back when are torn up, broken and chipped away. There's an old lamp pole in the distance. The metal looks brittle and one sigh away from breaking apart and floating off into the distance.

Neal sighs and scratches the back of his head. They have been walking for a while. No one is talking. Peter says talking is like a beacon for whatever is hiding out of sight. Personally, Neal thinks Peter is just a paranoid old man.

Then again, Neal doesn't really remember much about the Mojave. He knows it is the year 2281. He doesn't remember his birthday, though he's pretty sure he's never really been big on them at all. The mere thought makes his chest ache.

George gives a groan. Diana rubs the head closest to her. Imagine Neal's surprise when Diana started talking to Peter about George's diminished appetite, just when they reached the borders of Eadon. When Neal asked whose child George happened to be, everyone around Neal started laughing.

George is the Brahmin. The Brahmin's name is George. The most plain and boring name ever invented. George. _George._

"Why the hell did you name it George?" Neal blurts out, the filter between his brain and his mouth seemingly having gone fizzle when that bullet pierced his skin.

"He looks like a George." Diana says, turning her head and smiling at Neal. She seems nice, she could pack one hell of a punch, but she seems honestly nice. She looks after Peter like a sister rather than a mother.

Peter seems like the kind of guy who needs a sister and not a mother. He'd probably shoot someone who wanted to mother him. Neal doesn't need to know these people intimately to be able to detect their closeness.

"I don't know any two headed Georges..." Neal says, staring at the back of Peter's head. Diana giggles slightly as Peter turns his head to the side, showing Neal the right half of his face.

"You don't know anyone." Peter says.

"Point taken." Neal sarcastically replies. "But he doesn't look like a George. Call him Devore or something."

Neal can see Peter's eyebrow rise.

"Devore?" He enquires.

"Before the entire world went to hell in a hand basket, it used to be a really expensive, tailor-made suit." Neal replies nonchalantly.

"How the hell do you know that?"

"I don't know. Maybe I read books when I was a kid." Neal says. Even walking at a leisurely pace next to a Brahmin with a name, behind Peter and his towering a look of _"get the hell out of my way"-ness,_ Neal feels like an idiot. He has all of these things that are likely to fall from his lips, but he has no idea how he knows any of the things he says, they just slip out.

It's like word vomit, only _much, much_ worse. The words that happen to be slipping out will be getting Neal in trouble soon enough. Neal supposes that it is too soon to piss anyone off just yet. They might leave him in the middle of the desert. Amnesia sucks. Childish thought, but it's true.

There is a sudden screech, like spit being gurgled or flesh being rubbed together. Peter, Jones, Diana and even George stop immediately. They each turn away from George with lightning speed, weapons in hand.

Neal wants to ask what the hell is going on, but something inside tells him that he's just better off with not knowing at all. He stands as still as he can. If he doesn't move, whatever it is that made that sound won't see him. If it can't see him, it won't want to kill him with as much violence the Mojave is capable of.

"Feral." Jones mumbles, taking aim at the air.

Something catches Neal's attention from the corner of his eye. Turning his head, Neal sees what can only be described as a human being, devoid of all skin. The only thing that remains is the muscle covered bones. There is no real structure to the face, every identifying feature having been ripped away.

Instead of seeing fingers, Neal sees that it has something resembling claws. It slouches over, shoulders bent forward at an inhuman angle. Its legs are apart like buck teeth, arms hanging forward with claws hanging over where Neal supposes its crotch would be.

It sniffs the air, something having caught its attention. Neal knows it's them, but pure terror keeps him rooted to the spot. It opens what looks like eyelids and stares right at them. It takes a step forward, and another and another. Before Neal knows it, Peter is cocking his weapon and taking aim.

"Wha-" Neal starts saying when Peter pulls the trigger, reducing the already nonexistent human into a nonexistent puddle of blood.

"Feral ghoul. There's more around. Let's get moving."

Neal wants desperately to ask what the hell just happened, but he doesn't want to ask Peter to stop and explain. He's terrified that he'd be left alone in the middle of nowhere, death just around the corner.

"_Now_, Neal." Peter barks, already a few paces away from Neal. Giving a short sprint, Neal is right behind Peter, a little closer than before.

Neal likes to think of himself as a confident man, in the three days he's been "alive" so it is all he knows...but confidence doesn't hold a candle to pure terror at the things that might be hiding in the Mojave. Fuck _might be_ they are _definitely_ out there.

Five paces later though, the entire group comes to a screeching halt. Two bodies are fallen in front of them, each sprawled in an awkward angle, blood pooled underneath them. There are holes in their heads. Holes that aren't from bite marks, but from bullets.

"Oh God..." Diana whispers. Peter walks forward and crouches next to the closest body, picking up an arm to let it drop to the sand beneath the lifeless body, polluted by blood. The arm dangles in the air, Peter's hand shaking it lightly.

"They've been dead for a few days. They look familiar too..." Peter trails off. Neal can only guess that recognition has dawned on him. He's even clenching his jaw.

Jones steps forward. There is a frown on his forehead and a mumble on his lips.

"This is three days' walk from Brane. Whoever killed them didn't intend to pay them their due." Diana takes George's reigns, keeping him at her side while Jones investigates along with Peter.

"We need to move. Ferals are around." Peter bites out. There's something different about him all of a sudden. There's a combination of rage, confusion and frustration radiating off of him.

They all nod. This is not the time or place to discuss this. They need to move. They need to move _right now_. There's a screeching sound coming from not far behind them. Neal doesn't want to face one of those things again. Seeing one is terrifying enough, having to possibly shoot one is a little too much for his fragile mind right now.

Peter pulls Neal along by his wrist, away from the bodies dusting the already red dirt with a deeper scarlet. Little particles of dust coat the thickened pool of blood. Neal doesn't question the hand pulling him along. The fear and familiarity of these bodies hits a little too close to home.

They don't breathe too loudly; they don't even dare to speak. Diana pulls George along without fuss. Even he knows not to make a sound. Peter takes his place on the other side of George, pulling Neal behind him. Jones takes up the back, a rather large shotgun nestled in his hands.

Neal doesn't know if he's been more confused in his life. Confusion and frustration melts into one big frown between his brows. He keeps trying to think why those two dead men look familiar. Did he know them? Were they friends?

Neal strongly doubts that they knew one another that well. A pang of pity shoots through him at their deaths, not sadness though. He must not have liked them very much when they were alive.

"We need to make camp. It'll be dark soon." Peter suddenly instructs. He still hasn't let go of Neal's wrist. It is still comforting. It is still a finger on his pulse, checking that he's alive. Neal is half sure that he's alive anyway; otherwise this would be one hell of a cruel dream.

Peter may pretend to be a big guy that hates the entire world, but he's a big softie when it comes to people, even those he doesn't know as well as those whom he harbors hatred toward for some strange reason. Peter pulls Neal along the path they walk, stopping Neal from turning around and looking back at the death littering the desert floor.

It wouldn't take much to break him right now, even though Neal suspects that he's far stronger than he seems to think he is.

They walk for a few more minutes before Diana veers off to the right, pulling George with her. The entire group follows her for another mile into the nothingness of the Mojave.

Tonight they sleep underneath the stars...well Neal will sleep once he picks Peter's brain apart on why the hell he knows two dead people in the middle of the road, but doesn't do the courteous thing and bury them. Some things Neal will never understand...

***WC*WC*WC***

Jones and Diana went in search of food. Peter says that there are many lizards and ground moles around. Moles are blind, so they are easy to catch but not that easy to eat. Their meat is thick and difficult to chew, but it is packed with stuff Peter says they need so Neal doesn't question him. In truth Neal got bored and just nodded.

Peter is making a small fire. The sun is near its fiery death for the day. They'll fry the loot quickly and put out the fire just as quickly. Fire draws anything with eyes, some easy to get rid of, others easy to get rid of you. That's what Peter says. Neal makes a mental note that Peter knows the Mojave better than he'll let on. He won't talk about it.

Neal won't ask why Peter knows so much about the Mojave. He won't ask why Peter stiffens at the mention of a lady named Elizabeth. Neal suspect that she's the reason why Peter knows so much about the Mojave and why Peter practically refuses to stay in Eadon longer that the time it takes for spit to dry on a particularly hot day.

"Peter?" Neal scoots a little closer to the miniscule fire that Peter tries to force smaller. He doesn't look up.

"What was that thing you killed?" Neal suddenly feels like an idiot for having to ask, but of the things he remembers, this isn't one of them.

"It's called a feral ghoul." Peter replies immediately. "The high levels of radiation transformed people into those things. The radiation fried their brains, making them unable to reason and they are hostile to anyone but their own. They'll take a mean bite out of you and they're dangerous. If you see one, shoot. Don't ask questions."

"Are there any of them that aren't insane and cannibalistic?" Neal asks. He feels apprehensive. What the hell was he doing out in the desert with those things around?!

"Some, but people don't like them much. They have the tendency not to die. _At all. _I once met a ghoulie from Underworld. She was just over a hundred and fifty years old." Peter replies with a chuckle before adding. "Underworld is where they live. No one gets to discriminate against them there, but it's just a glorified slum."

Neal nods. Peter is quite animated. It would seem that aside from not knowing anything about himself, Neal doesn't really know anything about the world either. They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes before Neal dares to broach the subject.

"Who were those two dead men?" Neal asks, his eyes are glued to the little flicker of flame in front of him. He can feel Peter's eyes bore into his forehead. Neal hates being stared at like this.

"You really don't remember?" Peter asks, incredulous.

"Remember what?" Neal looks up at Peter. They engage in a slight stare down, but it is nothing like the one they had yesterday.

"They pushed you into the hole I pulled you out of." Neal feels his eyes widen at Peter's response.

"They tried to kill me?" Neal asks. His eyes haven't gone back to normal. They feel like they are about to bug out of his skull.

"I think so." Peter replies, pushing a thin stick into the little fire he made.

"But why are they dead?" Neal suddenly feels like a confused child.

"I have no idea Neal. It's not like you know either."

"Do you think whatever they were killed over is the same thing I got shot over?"

"I think so..."

"But _why_?" Neal scratches his head. He hates feeling this clueless.

"I don't know." Peter replies.

Neal can hear Diana and Jones in the distance. They're coming back already. George is lying down. Peter is poking the fire. Their lives are going on. Neal doesn't have one to go on with.

This isn't what living should feel like. Neal shouldn't be asking strangers why people want to kill him.

"Look, I know this isn't ideal, but Peter I-" Neal cuts himself off. How can he ask something like this? This isn't normal God damnit!

"Please help me?" Peter looks up and stares Neal right in the eye.

"I know you all have lives to go back to and I pretty much don't, because I don't remember anything apart from waking up three days ago." Neal scratches his head, but forces himself to continue.

"I need to know why someone tried to kill me." He finishes lamely. Peter looks down before rubbing his hands down his face.

"I don't have a life to go back to either." Peter mumbles.

"_Fine_, I'll help you." Peter agrees.

They don't speak again, not even when Jones and Diana return. Not when they eat a few vegetables and meat so springy that it could pass as a jumping castle from the days of old.

Neal wants to thank Peter, but he won't. Not yet. Peter won't accept it, Neal knows it.

Right now, under the stars, Neal combines his confusion and frustration with the knowledge that even thought Peter doesn't trust him or know him, he isn't alone anymore. At least for a little while anyway.

***WC*WC*WC***

**AN:**** Hello you beautiful people! I'm so sorry that this update has taken this long. I have a vacation job and it is killing me. I'm trying to write though, I promise! And hey look, Peter agreed to help Neal find out why he was almost murdered. Isn't that a sorry and a reward all in one?!**

**Please let me know what you guys think about this chapter! I'm really nervous about this story, because I have like 15 follows but only about 5 reviews per chapter. Don't be a silent reader please! I really want to hear your thoughts on this story.**

_**-Dedicated to:**_

_***iSage **__(Liam, you're the best and I love you to bits)_

_***BlueDiamondStar **__(You're adorable and your review made me giggle)_

_***SimplyOut **__(I'm glad you found chapter four awesome :))_

_***My Burrito **__(Belle, there are no words. I shall rant in your ear later about how much you mean to me and what not. Remember, you're my maid of honor if I ever get married, which fyi it is officially put on black and white so there is no backing out now! *insert evil laugh*)_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary:**** A bullet to the brain can rock your world, and not in a good way either, so when Neal wakes up with nothing but his own name, a paperclip and three caps, he knows he's screwed. Complete and utter AU set in a post-apocalyptic world.**

**Rating:**** T, likely to change to M in the future**

**Based on the PC game Fallout: New Vegas. And no, I don't own White Collar, just the computer this was written on and a version of the game.**

**This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are completely mine.**

"_Do you love me?" She whispers, lips skimming the shell of his ear. She's smiling, he can tell._

"_You know I love you." He whispers back. His heart does a little thump, caught between a life that isn't his and a woman he doesn't know._

"_Then tell me. Tell me you love me." Dark hair brushes his shoulder, a teasing feeling of what could be._

"_I-"_

Neal jolts up. His breath is coming in pants and his heart feels like it is about to jump out of his chest like some horror movie cliché. His hands are shaking, jaw clenched so tight that even his ears send a ping of pain to his brain.

What the ever loving fuck was that? A dream? A memory? Dark hair and incredibly pale skin floats in front of Neal's eyes. He knows that if he wants to grab at it, it will bleed between his fingers like water and he'll lose it.

Her voice sounds like silk sheets running between fingers, but his heart doesn't belong, his life doesn't belong. He doesn't know this woman, doesn't remember her and a feeling of dread creeps into Neal's bones making him almost wish that he doesn't remember her.

It's still dark. There are a few stars sticking to the inky blackness, making Neal feel like he isn't entirely alone. Peter promised to help him, albeit reluctantly.

Neal feels sadness press down on his chest. Does anyone know that he's gone? That he could have died? Do they think that he's dead?

Peter is still on watch. Neal can feel his eyes burning into the side of his face.

"Just a dream." Neal mumbles. He knows Peter can hear every word, because he turns his head away and starts staring into the darkness.

Neal lowers himself back down onto his makeshift bed slowly. _'Just a dream'_ he repeats like a mantra over and over, willing his heart to slow down and his mind to switch off so that he can fall back asleep. His eyes are burning from exhaustion.

Eventually Neal falls back asleep and this time there is no dream, just blackness covering his mind like a thick blanket. He's almost grateful for it.

***WC*WC*WC***

His eyes pop open suddenly. It's quiet. No wind is blowing, no mutated crickets annoying the world around them, nothing. Just incredible unwelcome silence.

"Are you alright?" Neal nearly lurches off of his makeshift bed in the middle of the desert. Diana cocks her head to the right. Neal is certain that she has a look on her face that will not betray her thoughts, even though Neal knows she thinks that he's an idiot.

"Yeah." Neal croaks before awkwardly clearing his throat. "I'm fine."

"Didn't sound like fine to me." She replies, her tone suggests that she might be two ticks away from calling bullshit.

"Where's Peter?" Neal blurts, taking note that Peter isn't with their group. Peter was on first watch when Neal finally managed to fall asleep a few hours ago.

"He's around." Diana replies, adjusting the rifle in her lap. Neal doesn't know what kind it is, but he's about 90 percent sure that it's the kind that blows really big holes into anything that gets remotely too close for comfort.

"You could have just said that you don't know." Neal replies sarcastically. Sleep made his eyes crusty and Neal rubs at his eyes halfheartedly while pushing himself up. He doesn't want to stretch, doesn't want the last dregs of sleep to leave him completely. He still feels sleep warm, the comfortable warm, the sort of warm you only get when someone is tucked tightly against you in the middle of a cold winter night.

"I do know. I just don't want to tell you." Diana replies cheekily. Neal can't bring himself to suppress the smile gracing his lips.

"How do you and Peter know each other?" Neal asks. Diana turns to look at him and Neal suddenly has the urge to slap himself.

"I don't mean to pry, it's just- you're all pretty close, no matter how prickly he tries to appear." Neal finishes lamely. Diana gives him a small grin before scanning the pitch black horizon again.

"I met Peter by accident. He was in a bad way; he drank far too much, slept far too little. He even had a beard, but it was mostly because he couldn't bring himself to shave. My family was travelling up from Big Town and Caesar's Legion ambushed us. They killed my father and my brother, took me and my mother with them. I don't really remember much about it; just that my mother was covered in blood, none of it was hers. We were being ferried across one of the radiation polluted rivers, chains around our necks and wrists. Peter shot about four of them. He was coming across one of the little dunes and saw the whole spectacle. My mother died trying to get us away. Peter grabbed my hand and we ran. I don't remember ever running as fast or as far in my entire life." Diana turns her head and stares at Jones for a second before scanning the horizon again.

"He saved my life, saved me from being raped and tortured. He brought me to Eadon and took care of me. He even drank less." Diana says with a chuckle.

"You were a little brat back then." Peter appears out of nowhere, rifle in hand. Diana doesn't move, just smiles, almost as if she knows he's standing behind her. Maybe she does know.

"Thirteen and bushy haired with a temper that is still unmatched to this day." Peter smiles and rubs Diana's head only to have his hand slapped away. Neal can't help but smile at the familiar feeling between them, how close they feel to one another.

"Peter wanted me to stay with Hughes, but I followed him out of Eadon as soon as he left. He must have brought me back five times before June laughed and made Peter take me with him."  
"You clung harder to my leg than mutie blood." Peter says and makes a face. Neal has no idea what mutie blood is and he's sure his confusion shows as clear as day.

"Super Mutant's blood is really sticky. Some idiots use it to grease the gears in New Vegas to keep everything running smoothly. You can't get it off of your hands." Neal nods in understanding.

"Let's avoid getting mutie blood on anyone then." Neal says sarcastically. Peter just smiles and Diana shakes her head.

"You two should get some sleep. Sun will be up in less than two hours." Peter says.

"How do you know that?" Neal asks.

"He's got some female intuition going for him." Diana teases.

"Yeah, yeah smartass. Go to sleep before I change my mind." Diana grins and moves over to her blankets. Neal figures she's cuddling her rifle.

Peter and Neal sit in shared silence for a while. Neal knows he'll never be able to fall back asleep again. After a while, Neal dares to speak.

"Why is it so quiet?" Peter doesn't acknowledge Neal at all.

"Some nights it just is. Some of the old merchants used to say that on nights like this, it is so quiet because every living creature mourns our existence, that we survived and so many did not, that we practically destroyed our world." Neal nods a little, tucking his knees into his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs.

"Wanna tell me about that dream you had earlier?" Peter asks. He's looking everywhere but at him. Neal can't find it in himself to blame Peter.

"I don't really know what it was. It was a woman with long dark hair and really pale skin. That's all I saw. It was blurry." Neal doesn't know why he opts to keep the little conversation between himself and that woman to himself. It almost feels like his brain is about to yell at him that he knows why, because if Peter catches wind of this woman Neal loves, he'll just dump Neal with her and be on his merry way.

"Do you remember having any brothers or sisters?" Peter asks. Neal just shakes his head.

"No, I don't know. I don't think so."

"Maybe it's your wife of girlfriend or something." Neal makes a face and Peter grins.

"You and Diana are close." Neal says, more of a statement than a question.

"Yes." Peter says. Neal rolls his eyes at Peter's bluntness, at his blatant disregard for the social concept of 'continue with the conversation.'

"Are you going to tell her?" Neal asks.

"What, about me helping you?" Neal nods. "I suppose, yeah. She's the closest thing to family I have, so not telling her would piss her off and trust me, we don't want that."

"She can't be that bad." Neal says jokingly.

"Oh she is. We once came across a lone mutie. We took it on, cause there was no way in hell we were going to be able to get past it without it seeing us. I did my best to keep it away from her and it threw me to the ground to hard that I broke three ribs. She shot the hell out of it. Dropping a mutie at fifteen is something not a lot of people can say." Peter trails off. Neal nods into his knees.

"We'll figure something out once we get to town. I don't like being out here for too long." Peter says, resting his hand on Neal's shoulder. The unspoken comfort makes Neal nod. Maybe Peter won't dump him with anyone. Best not to get his hopes up, Neal decides.

Peter sits up a little straighter, his eyes big and searching. The smell of smoke reaches Neal's nostrils.

"What the-"

"Fuck." Peter mumbles, moving quickly to wake Diana and Jones up as quietly as possible. They're both awake instantly, not even asking any questions.

"Raiders." Peter says, motioning for them all to pack their shit up as quickly as possible.

Neal doesn't ask questions. The clench his gut gives him is indication enough to shut up and _move._

***WC*WC*WC***

"Baby?"

Adler doesn't turn, instead standing in front of the window, staring down at his empire. All of New Vegas' lights twinkling at him like they know his secrets, like they know what he's hiding in the basement.

Keller has the chip and like a good little idiot, he'll deliver it to Adler as soon as possible. His fingers itch to have it all at his disposal, not just New Vegas. Smooth, pale fingers wrap around his waist, sneaking in through the open slit of his dressing gown. Kate is such a lovely little minion, doing exactly what she's told. This is all going according to plan.

"What's wrong?" She mumbles into his neck. Adler can feel her breasts gently press into his back, her fingers exploring his chest.

"Nothing." Adler replies, snagging Kate's hand and guiding her fingers down to where he wants them.

Yes, soon he will have it all. He will have that chip. Loose ends are just another itty bitty problem. A shame really. Kate is quite lovely.

***WC*WC*WC***

**AN:**** Hey guys, sorry for the delay in updating. I hope you like this chapter. I'm not really sure about it. It isn't awfully long, but the next chapter has a whole lot of excitement in it. Please let me know what you think? Reviews = LOVE! Think we can make it to 40 reviews this time?**

**Merry Christmas (to those who celebrate it) and Happy New Year!**

_**Dedicated to:**_

_***iSage**_

_***Anon**_

_***BlueDiamondStar**_

_***Burrito**_

_***SimplyOut**_

_***My Guest reviewer**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary:**** A bullet to the brain can rock your world, and not in a good way either, so when Neal wakes up with nothing but his own name, a paperclip and three caps, he knows he's screwed. Complete and utter AU set in a post-apocalyptic world.**

**Rating:**** T, likely to change to M in the future**

**Based on the PC game Fallout: New Vegas. And no, I don't own White Collar, just the computer this was written on and a version of the game.**

**This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are completely mine.**

_****Please note that this chapter does contain graphic violence in the beginning****_

Raiders are nothing like their name suggests. Granted, Neal didn't expect them to be flower children who hand out hugs and kisses to the sad and lonely, yet, somehow they are not as scary as they seem to want to be. The leader, whom Neal can only think is the leader, is a tall man, lanky with a bleached Mohawk. Neal can make out the tattoos that adorn his body, somehow knowing that they aren't tattoos, but pieces of skin that were carved out over the years.

Peter told Diana and Jones to take George deeper into the field they were camping out in, even pushed Neal to go with them, but Neal refused. To be honest, Neal has no idea why he refused, just that he did. His mouth moved far quicker than his brain. Peter had given him a look, but Neal wouldn't budge.

That is how Neal and Peter find themselves in this position, hands tied behind their backs, knees pressing into the brittle tar road. Peter doesn't move. His eyes are closed. Neal can't help but look around at the pure chaos around them. Mohawk man took their weapons and told the rest of the group to tie them up. Apparently they didn't move as quickly as they first thought. Peter and Neal barely had a fraction of a second to think of a plan, before they were pounced on. _Literally pounced on._ A different lanky guy jumped on Peter's back and what Neal can only imagine was a woman, jumped on his back. He thinks it was a woman, there were breasts poking into his back. At least he thinks they were breasts.

"Peter-" Neal whispers.

"Shh." Peter doesn't move. The Raiders have their weapons, even the knife that Peter kept in his boot.

"But-" Neal tries again, but Peter cuts him off.

"Shh." Peter jiggles his shoulders slightly, something that Neal would only have noticed if he'd been looking straight at Peter, which none of the Raiders are doing. They are too busy acting like hooligans, screaming, drinking and Neal would go out on a limb and say that Mohawk man is having sex right on the tar, no more than thirty feet from them.

That is exactly when all hell breaks loose. There are no more than fifteen Raiders around them, all grabbing weapons and screaming like someone is setting them on fire. It takes Neal exactly three seconds to realize that Peter is no longer next to him and that there are shots coming from the field. A rhythmic pop, pop, pop, pop telling his brain that there are two shooters with rifles. Diana and Jones. Peter leaps into his frame of vision. Neal can see a knife in his hand. A very big knife that he is currently sliding into the stomach of a rather large man, like a knife through hot butter, Peter slides the sharp end home once, twice, before dropping the man where he stands and moving on to the next target.

He doesn't move, he doesn't breathe. Neal sees the woman Mohawk man was having sex with, fall to the ground in a heap of sprawled limbs. There is a hole between her eyes, no bigger than the nail on his pinky finger. Peter jumps over her body, slitting the throat of another man. In no more than two minutes fourteen bodies litter the ground. Their blood staining the black tar even darker with their sin, their murder. Neal can't take his eyes off of Peter. He moves quickly, no trace of his forty plus years or many injuries Neal is certain he has attained; _none of that_.

"Cook Cook, I told you to stay away from here." Peter growls. Neal's eyes follow Peter like a predator stalks his prey, like Peter is stalking Mohawk man, no, Cook Cook.

"Whatcha gon do bout dat Vegas man?" Cook Cook taunts.

"Exactly what I promised you last time. I'm going to kill you." Peter replies calmly.

"You don hav da balls Vegas man." Cook Cook spits. Neal can make out his yellow teeth even in the semi-dark. Diana hands Peter a gun that Neal is certain comes from Peter's stash on George's back. Neal doesn't know when Diana and Jones stepped closer, just that Jones is untying his hands and Peter now has the barrel of a gun pressed against Cook Cooks forehead.

"You kill my bitch Vegas man." Cook Cook says. He has no tone, just indifference.

"I did." Diana says before turning away and walking toward Neal. Suddenly she blocks his view of Peter and Cook Cook. Neal wants to crane his head past her to see what is going to happen, to put word to deed, but Diana grabs his face between her soft palms and stares into his eyes.

A shot makes his ears ring, followed by the sound of a bag of potatoes hitting the ground. Diana doesn't blink or flinch, instead helping Jones to pull Neal to his feet. Peter walks toward them, a blank look on his face.

"They hit his head pretty hard when they took us down. Patch him up a little Diana, please?" Peter doesn't look at Neal, instead turning toward Jones. "Help me find my guns." Neal knows they are going to raid whatever these people had on them. He knows without being told that it is the law of the land.

"Come on." Diana says softly, leading him away from the mound of bodies making art in the middle of nowhere. George is about fifty feet from the road and Diana makes Neal lean against the animal. He makes a soft bulking sound before swaying a little under Neal's miniscule weight.

"What just happened?" Neal asks. His voice is a little hoarse and his eyes burn.

"Raiders. We've come across them before."  
"Is that when Peter told him he'd kill him?" Diana brushes Neal's hair away before patting lightly at the small cut at the base of his skull.

"Peter warned him to stay away from this highway. There are a lot of families that use this route to get to Baine. Easy pickings for them, so Peter broke Dahvie's arm, he was second in command. Peter is just keeping the world as safe as he can." Diana replies.

"Okay." Neal knows Diana is staring at him.

"Just okay?" She asks.

"Just okay." Diana nods, sticking something to the back of Neal's head.

"Come on, they ought to be done by now." Neal doesn't say anything, instead opting to follow Diana and George to where, sure enough, Jones and Peter stand waiting for them. Peter has all of his weapons again and Jones' bag seems to have a bit more weight to it.

"Let's go." Peter instructs. No one argues. Neal just falls into step behind Peter as they walk off into the semi-darkness in the Mojave Desert. There are fifteen dead people behind them, blood all over Peter's hands and boots.

The sun is starting to peek over the horizon, casting the desert in front of them in a soft pink and orange glow that seems to chase the darkness away. Too bad it can't scare the bodies away. Neal doesn't remember, but he's sure that no matter what, bodies seem to stay with you no matter how many miles you put between yourself and the life that's been snatched away.

***WC*WC*WC***

The crudely written board in front of Neal says 'Welcome to Baine.' The sun is scorching his skin. His neck feels like it is made out of rubber. It cannot be past nine in the morning, but it doesn't seem to bother the good, dirty people of Baine. Peter has chased away three beggars within minutes of their arrival. Peter, Jones and Neal stand outside of what looks like a general store.

Diana went in a good five minutes ago, or it could have been one minute ago. Neal isn't sure. All he is sure about is that he is being fried alive and judging by the hungry look in the eyes of the beggar sitting next to the general store, he'll be eaten as soon as he passes out from heatstroke.

Diana chooses the best time to exit the store, dust and small rocks crunching beneath her boots.

"We're all set. Got the caps for this month's run and I traded the goods. Where to next?" Peter has a frown on his face instantly.

"We need to see mister Haversham." Jones barks out a laugh and Diana scrunches her nose.

"God I am glad I don't have to deal with him." Jones mocks, but Neal has a feeling he's not mocking Diana.

"Yes well, your concern is noted. Go fill up our water supply and feed George. We need to leave before nightfall." Peter rubs a hand down his face and turns to what Neal can only guess is this much loved Haversham's store.

"Can I come with you?" Neal suddenly asks. Peter, Jones and Diana all look shocked for a second, before Peter agrees.

"Sure. You can be my buffer with the rat." Peter's tone suggests clear distrust and annoyance. Diana and Jones lead George away, Peter and Neal heading in the exact opposite direction.

"So what's this Haversham guy like?" Neal asks, moving quickly to keep up with Peter's giant steps.

"He's squirrely, strange and a pain in the ass." Peter replies.

"Wow, he definitely shouldn't ask you for a character reference then." Neal teases. Peter has a slight smile on his face.

"He definitely shouldn't." Peter turns his head and looks at Neal, his pace never slowing.

"Stop staring. You're making my head hurt." Neal says, not looking back at Peter. There's a grin on his face now.

"We're here." Peter says. His grin is gone. He must really not like this guy. Peter climbs a few wooden steps, stopping in front of a thick wooden door. He doesn't knock, just sighs and pushes the door open. Neal is on his heels like a cat in heat.

The room is small and dark. There is a window, but it is covered with a thick curtain, three light bulbs hanging precariously from the ceiling. The counter is made of light wood and is covered in stacks of books, real paper books. Behind the counter Neal sees three cases lined with alcohol, not the cheap stuff like June sells in her bar, no this man stocks the real stuff, the expensive and extremely rare stuff.

"He's a collector." Neal says.

"He's a thief." Peter replies.

Right then, a small man comes into the room with them, closing what looks to be the door of a storeroom, behind him. His nose is stuffed in a book, and he doesn't look up as he begins ranting. His chino's are from the early 2000's as well as his white with light blue lines button down shirt. Neal is almost willing to bet that this man doesn't even wear boots, but loafers from the same era as his clothes.

"You're late suit. Three whole days late. I don't like it when-" The man looks up and straight at Neal. His rant cuts off, almost like his tongue has suddenly swollen so large that he cannot even breathe.

"Neal?"

Neal feels his eyes grow as big as Peter's clenched fists. He knows this man? This collector, this _thief_?

"Well fuck me, you two know each other." Peter's voice is loud, but nothing is louder than the voice in Neal's head that is screaming at him right now.

***WC*WC*WC***

**AN:**** Hey guys. Here you go, I hope you like it. I'm back at university again as a full time honors student, yay me.**

**Please review and leave your thoughts on this chapter.**

_**Dedicated to:**_

_***Devoregirl**_

_***anon70**_

_***Emrys1411**_

_***BlueDiamondStar**_

_***SimplyOut**_

_***My Burrito**_


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary:**** A bullet to the brain can rock your world, and not in a good way either, so when Neal wakes up with nothing but his own name, a paperclip and three caps, he knows he's screwed. Complete and utter AU set in a post-apocalyptic world.**

**Rating:**** T, likely to change to M in the future**

**Based on the PC game Fallout: New Vegas. And no, I don't own White Collar, just the computer this was written on and a version of the game.**

**This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are completely mine.**

"This doesn't concern you Suit." Mr. Haversham says, turning to glare disdainfully at Peter. Peter doesn't bat an eye. He merely stares back at the short hairless man with thinly concealed amusement and irritation.

"Neal, where have you been?" The man continues on, as if the look or words from Peter's mouth were just a figment of his imagination. When Neal doesn't reply, the little man takes a step closer which causes Neal to take a step back. Neal isn't able to decipher the look on the man's face, but he faintly imagines a flash of hurt and amazement.

"He doesn't know you Mr. Haversham." Peter says, stepping half in front of Neal to shield him from this man Neal is supposed to know.

"Like hell he does!" The man belts out, his fists balled by his sides.

"No, he does not. Just give me your list and we'll be on our merry way. Alright?" Peter adds the last word almost as an afterthought. Neal doesn't say anything. His head is hurting again. The man huffs in irritation, but doesn't step back to retrieve the list Peter mentioned.

"He was shot. In the head. He doesn't remember anyone. Don't take it personally, but you need to back off right now Mr. Haversham." Peter says, moving to stand fully in front of Neal. Neal's vision is filled with the wide, grey-white shirt covering the expanse of Peter's back. A little leather running from his shoulders to under his armpits. He's armed, Neal's mind balefully supplies.

"What?" Mr. Haversham demands.

"Don't make me repeat myself. Just get the list and we'll leave." Peter's shoulders bunch under his shirt. Neal cannot see the little man, but from the sound of his voice, the man is annoyed.

Neal suddenly has an idea and blurts it out even before his mind can catch up to his body. He has a hand on Peter's arm, neither pulling nor pushing. A reassurance. He's okay and he wants Peter to know that.

"How do you know me?" Neal asks, only moving half of his body from behind Peter.

"How do I know you? That's a stupid question, even for you Neal." The little man huffs and turns, heading back the way he came just minutes earlier. Peter and Neal are quiet. Waiting for Mr. Haversham to return with or without the list Peter requested, somehow Neal knows that this man has a flair for the dramatics and even though he huffed and puffed like the wolf in the age old children's story, the man will answer Neal. Eventually.

"Oh please, I've known you since you we're a bright eyed, pimply-faced courier." The man calls from the back of the store. Peter turns somewhat back to Neal, brandishing a raised eyebrow and a quick to the lips.

"What?" Neal asks, feeling suddenly vulnerable and nervous.

"Nothing." Peter smoothly replies. "Just imagining you with floppy hair and acne."

"Please." Neal scoffs. "I don't even know if that's true. Maybe I didn't even have pimples." Neal says defensively. Peter grins.

"I'm thinking boulders, all over the face." Peter teases. There's a rustle from the open door at the back of the store. Instead of replying, Neal just shoots Peter a dirty look. Peter is still grinning so Neal ignores him. Moments later the little bald man returns with a book tucked under his arm and a writing pad in his other hand.

"Your list, Suit." The man puts both items down on the counter, ripping the top page from the writing pad and flopping it impatiently at Peter. Neal imagines the man telling Peter that he doesn't have all day. It makes him smile slightly. The forced ease these two men have with one another. Neal is sure if they needed the other's help, it will be given readily. With complaint, but it will be given.

"Thank the heavens." Peter says sarcastically, yanking the paper from between Mr. Haversham's fingers.

"So how do you know me?" Neal repeats. Peter straightens, be it consciously or subconsciously, Neal isn't sure. Mr. Haversham doesn't react, but Neal can see he has also tensed.

"We worked together a few years ago and became friends." Mr. Haversham replies.

"When I was still a courier?" Neal asks. To his credit, the man doesn't even blink.

"Yes." He replies nonchalantly.

"So I'm not a courier anymore?"

"A glorified one, I'd call it. Adler always knew how to pick his pawns." Haversham replies flippantly. His attention shifts to the book, all signs indicating that he's finished answering questions.

"And the girl?" Neal asks. He can feel himself growing agitated with the flippancy this man is using on him.

"What girl?"  
"Dark hair, bright blue eyes."

"I thought you said he doesn't remember anything?" Haversham shoots at Peter.

"I don't. I had a dream or a flashback. Whatever you want to call it." Neal answers. Peter had no intention of answering the question, of this Neal is sure.

"Kate." Haversham replies after a moment. "You two dated. She's one of Adler's cats."

"Adler's cats?" Neal asks confusedly. This time, Peter answers for Mr. Haversham.

"Prostitute. Sounds like this fellow is a pimp and you fell for one of his girls. How very Moulin Rouge of you Neal." Haversham stares at Peter for a few seconds, astonishment painting his features.

"What?" Peter shoots, feathers clearly ruffled. "Just because I look like a grunt, doesn't mean I have no clue about what passed for culture in the twenty-first century cinema."

"Close, but you don't deserve your cigar yet Suit." Haversham says. "Kate was indeed one of Adler's many prostitutes, except he saw a bit more promise in her than her back could give her. She became the madam, oversaw his New Vegas brothel and stepped out with Neal here, the young courier. Maybe she wanted one pure part of her life, but we'll never know." Haversham turns, placing the book on one of the many piles of books stacked in the store.

"What do you mean?" Peter asks.

"Well Suit, an old friend of mine sent me a little bird to tell me that the lovely Kate was found murdered in her own pleasure palace."

"What?" Neal feels like the rug keeps being pulled from under him. Finally, a name to fit the beautiful face, only to learn that she's dead.

"She had a lot of enemies, you know that." Haversham says without fully realizing his words, but it is too late. She's dead and Neal is no nearer to knowing anything than he was this morning.

"No, I don't." Neal says bitterly. "Thank you for your time Mr. Haversham." Neal says before storming out of the store. It takes Peter a few minutes to follow him, but he does eventually find Neal sitting next to Diana, chewing on an apple.

"Jones went to finish up the rest of the requests." Diana says. Peter looks like he wants to thank her, but doesn't. Neal doesn't ask.

***WC*WC*WC***

**A/N: Sorry for the very late, very short chapter. University has been pretty rough, but we're on a break now. I hope you guys like it. Please leave me some feedback.**

**This one is dedicated to everyone who has reviewed, favourited and alerted so far. Reviews are always welcome.**


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